In April I celebrate the month I started writing Men Dancing, a novel born from the
moment I realised that ballet dancer Carlos Acosta must get my train every time
he goes to Gatwick…
April is also
the month in which the Men Dancing story
begins, so it’s a good time to start reading it! My publisher is happy to help some
of you do that – by giving away five signed copies. All you have to do is write a few lines telling us which
performer you’d like to meet on a train and how you think it would go! Send them to my website www.cherryradford.co.uk or Facebook Cherry
Radford Author Page. It doesn’t matter where you are in the world, and multiple
entries are permitted. The winners will be announced on Sunday 15th
April.
Meanwhile, here’s what happened in Men Dancing:
I
shouldn’t have been on that train. And I don’t like aisle seats, but the train
was full of whooping, rucksacked teenage boys; I had to sit down next to one of
those annoying men with their legs wide open to accommodate their wares. He was
engrossed in a book, and apparently happy to let me perch half-bottomed on my
seat to minimise contact with his admittedly well-sculpted thighs.
I took out my research papers but thought, sod
it, let’s speed up this train, and switched them for the Margot Fonteyn
biography. And then I peeled the lid off my coffee and groaned. ‘Want a black
coffee anyone? They gave me the wrong one.’
The
boys opposite were lolling against each other, guffawing at images on a mobile
phone. So I swivelled and held it out to thigh-man, who thanked me with a nod
and a flash of curly-lashed black eyes before grabbing the cup. It was enough:
my heart thudded, my cheeks boiled. He seemed smaller and slighter. Instead of
the famously broad grin there was a closed, weary smile. But it was definitely
him. I’d seen him twice that season alone from the front row of the Royal Opera
House; his raw masculinity the cause of much prurient speculation in the
after-show dinners with Emma.
‘Sugar?’
‘No,
no,’ he said into the cup. Of course not; a cruel review had commented on his
increasing heaviness, although, glancing down his tightly shirted and jeaned
form, there was no evidence of it.
I
considered pretending I didn’t know who he was, but my pink cheeks and Fonteyn
book were going to make that somewhat unlikely. I wished I’d brushed my hair
properly and put black tights on my April legs, tried to think of something to
say.
But
then, exhaling loudly with the pleasure of the coffee, he prodded Margot’s face.
‘Is
good?’
‘Fascinating.’
A
lopsided grin. ‘And she has... you know, what happen with her and Nureyev?’
‘Er...
It’s not clear. She denied it. And, according to his biography, so did he... but not always... he claims she
miscarried his baby.’ I was loosening up, proud to share my research. I took a
breath and forged on: ‘But frankly, she slept with most of her other partners,
so why on earth wouldn’t she?’
‘Exactamente. Why not?’ He laughed,
clearly comfortable in this territory. ‘Worked hard, she deserve it.’ He tilted
his head back on his long, powerful neck and gulped down more coffee.
The
boy opposite was arranging his hands in a heart shape
and pointing at Alejandro and then me, prompting a loud snort and
rocking from his mate.
Then
I thought that was probably it, so I put my bag on the floor and opened my book
to read. Or pretend to. But his book
was closed. I sneaked a look at him and found myself meeting his gaze.
‘Are
you going to Gatwick? Going back home?’ This was probably alright: the
documentary had dwelt on his homesickness for Cuba.
There
was a beat where he seemed to hesitate, registering that I knew who he was.
‘Yes. Rehearse, performance, then little holiday before return for Giselle. You go to Opera House?’
‘Yes,
but more often to Sadler’s Wells – just down the road from work. Easier to
persuade friends to come with me. But I went to Manon a couple of weeks ago – can never tire of that ballet.’
‘Mine?’
he asked, a slight grin playing around his lips.
‘No.
But I saw you in it last year.’
‘So
why not this time? You don’t like my Des Grieux?’
This
was weird: why on earth should he care what some woman on a train thought about
one of his roles, when all his performances sold out months ahead?
‘No...
I mean, yes, I did... But I saw you in Mayerling,
I really liked you in that.’ Liked you:
rather inappropriate for such a violent, passionate role.
We
were coming into East Croydon. Half way to Gatwick. I wondered how I was going
to feel when he got out: certainly not in a fit state for reading the research
papers.
‘Why
you not like my Des Grieux?’ he persisted.
‘I
didn’t say that!’ I said, forcing a laugh, but he didn’t return my smile. The
critics might like an occasional carp, but maybe it’d been a long time since
anyone had been less than ecstatic about his performance to his face. Des
Grieux: the lovesick, gullible theology student. I’d said to Emma, ‘He just doesn’t do humility, does he? Nice
costume though.’
‘I
dunno. He’s a passive, soppy character. Not really you.’ I was relieved to see
him nodding. ‘But what do I know?’
‘I
think you’re right.’ He looked down at my bag. ‘So where you work?’
‘At
a hospital in the City. I do research... on contact lens-related infections.’
‘You
are doctor?’
‘A
vision scientist.’
‘Contact
lenses are dangerous?’
‘Not
very often. But a lot of people wear them, so we have to find out how to make them
safer.’
‘And
after a day of that, you eye people go to Sadler’s Wells. I like that. I like
the audience there – all different, and young, not like at Opera House – lots
of crazy ladies.’
‘Don’t
say that, I’m one of those and proud of it!’
‘No,
no!’ he said, laughing, his large warm hand shaking my shoulder rather more
powerfully than intended, my book falling between my legs to the floor with a
loud clap.
‘Ay – perdón.’ He swiftly bent down to
pick it up, the hairs on his arm brushing against my knee with pinprick
intensity, and the back of his curly dark head so near, and so neat and boyish,
that I wanted to touch him there. And then he was up again, putting the book
into my hand with an unexpectedly embarrassed smile that left me giddy.
‘So...
you must find all this difficult to cope with,’ I said, waving my hand at the
windowful of blasted trees and slanting rain. The climate: couldn’t I do better
than that? He followed my hand obediently and looked outside, then back at me
with a furrowed brow. ‘The weather. Not what you’re used to.’
‘Oh,’
he said, breaking into a smile. ‘Yes. Is very difficult. Easy to be sad. And I
miss the sea too.’ He was reaching into his pocket; in my stupefied state I
thought he was going to take out a photo of home. ‘We have to show ticket,’ he
said, his hot breath on my ear as he yanked the ticket out, along with a shower
of coins that clattered and twirled on the floor. I bent down to help him pick
them up. They were all over the place, but somehow we both went for the same
coin and collided.
‘Ow!’
We clutched our heads.
‘Aren’t
you dancers supposed to have spatial awareness or something?’ I asked, laughing
with the pain. ‘How’s yours?’
‘Is
bad. Maybe piece of your brain go in my head. I will know if now I can do matemáticas.’
‘Or
maybe a bit of yours has gone in mine.’
‘Well...’
started Alejandro, his hand to his mouth, but the ticket inspector was suddenly
in front of us.
I
opened my bag and dug around, lifting out a cardigan and a bag of Maltesers
before finding my pass and letting the man move on.
‘Ah!
Is big bag.’ My turn to look puzzled. ‘I like these very much,’ he said,
pointing to the Maltesers. ‘Please, we share now, together?’
I
looked at his face: the broad grin, the eyebrows crinkled in mock despair. And
I thought, what I want to share now, together, is a kiss. Nothing major, just a
firm brief one, with my hands either side of your cheeky face. Or maybe in your
soft curly hair.
‘Why
not,’ I said, and started trying to open the bag. I usually did it with my
teeth, but that didn’t seem hygienic for sharing. So I quickly ripped along the
dotted line, even though I’d made that mistake before... ‘Oh for f…!’ Chocolate
balls sprayed into the air, pattered on to the floor and started running madly
all over the place.
‘Sorry,’
I said to the smart elderly ladies the other side of the carriage, and watched
as they carefully levered themselves up and crunched their way out of the area.
‘Sorry about that,’ I said, turning to Alejandro, but he had his head down, his
shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Then
he looked up and mock-punched me. ‘Why you do this? I’m hungry.’
‘I
don’t know, I’m always dropping everything.’
‘Yes,
I am the same. Not ballerinas of course, or I don’t have job, but all other
things.’ He took the ripped bag from me. ‘Is there more? Ah yes... siete, ocho, nueve... four and half
each.’
He
turned to me, took my wrist as I cupped my hand. We ate two at a time and
murmured our pleasure.
‘Why you think we drop everything?’ he
asked.
‘I
think... well, for me... it’s because I’m always thinking of something else.
Either I’m too excited about something, or I’m in a daydream.’ I blushed as it
occurred to me that I was talking to the likely new star of my daydreams.
But
he was looking down, pensive. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think this is for me too.’ I
tried to imagine what he might daydream about: surely he already had everything
he wanted? He took the last ball out of the bag. ‘So... you want first or
second half?’ He was looking back up at me with a broad grin.
‘What?’
‘Is
skill I have, I go first.’ He put the Malteser to his mouth and bit it, then
proudly held up a perfect semi-sphere between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Abre. Open.’
‘It’s
okay, you—’
‘No.
I do this for you. Open.’ I felt his steadying hand on my arm, his fingers on
my lips as he put it in my mouth. We smiled at each other, looked down at our
laps. He put his head on one side and seemed to be about to say something.
But
then I noticed the blue Gatwick signs, saw him follow my gaze, heard the
train’s rhythm slowing. I sat in a daze and watched him stand up and reach for
his bag on the luggage rack – revealing a taut band of golden tummy and the
black band of his boxers – and lift it down, pillow-light, onto the opposite
seat. I was mumbling something like ‘Here you are then’ when he grabbed my hand
and kissed it firmly, saying ‘Encantado’.
And then, with the fluency of a cat, he was out of the train and striding
swiftly away down the platform.
It
was over. He hadn’t asked for my name; he hadn’t looked back. Why would he? It
didn’t matter: it had been special, something I would always remember. But it
was suddenly very cold in the train. I moved over to his seat and felt his
warmth on my thighs, smiled at the Maltesers still comically rolling around the
floor, put a finger to my lips. His scent stayed
with me. So did his grin and laughter. Somehow he wasn’t going away. It couldn’t be over.
